


No Such Thing as Just Desserts

by SylvanWitch



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not canon-compliant, Snape's alive, leatherdaddy!Harry, post-DH, rentboy!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lounging outside the Purple Lotus was supposed to score Draco some drinks and a warm bed for the night.  One out of two isn't bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Such Thing as Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a prompt fill for a friend over on LJ, posted in April 2007.

The lithe young man was almost painfully thin, a quality he showed to its best advantage in a skin-tight silk tee-shirt that was sheer enough to highlight his dark pink nipples against the light blue fabric, which color, of course brought out his grey-blue eyes.

 

He leaned in that way they have, you know, shoulders against the bricks, pelvis thrust pointedly forward, feet spread just enough to suggest there was room for one more between the narrow, taut thighs, thighs encased in some indefinable cloth that caught the light like water, sliding downward, cupping around the perfect triangle of his groin.

 

Platinum hair fell around his face to frame too-pink lips pouted around a redundant sucker.

 

A twinkier twink had never twinkled.

 

The sucker fell gracelessly from suddenly astonished lips, however, when a second young man walked by, hips swaying enough to make the rings on his chaps jangle against the silver studs dotting the barely-there thong he wore underneath.

 

Grey eyes fixed on the perfect set of teeth-marks on one round buttock and then followed the naked back up to the broad shoulders, across which was draped the casual arm of an older man, expensive watch a shining counterpoint to the chestnut hair peeking out of perfectly appointed cuffs.  The hand at Harry’s left cheek held the handle of a delicate silver chain, which led to a studded leather collar that matched Harry’s thong.  

 

As the blonde watched the couple, the older man leaned in and whispered something that made Harry throw his head back and laugh with abandon.  

 

Draco straightened up, suddenly aware of his precarious position—trolling outside the _Purple Lotus_ in London’s notorious Hampstead Heath—until his Slytherin mind dismissed the danger, recognizing that he had at least as much on Potter as Potter might have on him…should he notice Draco at all.

 

Right then, it appeared that Harry was seeing nothing but his companion, whose considerable assets were nicely understated in a suit that probably cost as much as Draco’s last broom...when Draco had had a broom, a home, anything at all except the space between the wall and whatever man he managed to talk into taking him home.

  

Still, the Boy Who Lived hadn’t continued to do so by being oblivious, at least not in the years of the war and its violent aftermath.  Even now, three years after Voldemort’s demise, there were hidden Death Eater cells detonating suicide spells in the streets of London.  

 

So Harry’s eyes scanned the boys and young men lined up along the wall outside the club, sliding by Draco so that the latter let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  Then he was pinned in a sharp green gaze, and he saw the moment of recognition.

 

Harry started to duck out from under his companion’s possessive arm, but he was brought up short two steps into his exodus by a tight tug on the silver leash.

 

The look he flashed at his companion then was anything but submissive, and the man dropped the leash like he’d been burned, taking two steps back toward the valet, who had yet to pull his silver Mercedes away from the curb.

 

Draco had a moment to wonder what Harry could have said to accompany that look and create such fear in the Muggle master, and then Harry was before him, eyes dragging slowly up the length of his legs, pausing at his groin and then continuing their progress, fixing firmly not on Draco’s own, now-wide eyes, but on his pale throat, which bobbed as he swallowed nervously, unsure what Harry’s reaction would be.

 

Harry leaned in and let his hot breath ghost over Draco’s throat, and Draco let his head fall back against the brick wall.  Harry brought his hand up, and Draco flinched, which made Harry stop and take a step back.

 

He met Draco’s eyes this time, a look of inquiry there and something else—something more dangerous than pity, which Draco couldn’t afford anymore—interest.  He didn’t want to interest Harry Potter.

 

Harry finished his motion, finally, removing the collar and dropping it to the concrete, where it landed in a chiming heap.  Then he leaned in and encased Draco’s Adam’s apple in the careful tug of his teeth.  

 

They didn’t move, not for a long time, and when it became clear to Draco that Harry intended no harm, something of his old life came back to him, enough to say, “Did that mangy werewolf of yours finally do you up?”

 

Harry only tightened the bite and let his tongue lick a line of heat in the center of that perfect red place, which made Draco squeak a little and then sigh, slumping back against the wall.

 

He released Draco only after the other had begun to tremble, a fine tremor that made his nipples peak and brought his breath in short gusts against Harry’s still gloriously messy hair.  Draco had to resist the urge to touch that hair, to touch any part of the young man who stood before him, unmoving except for the unhurried rise and fall of his broad chest.

 

“You look good,” Harry said finally, as though remarking on the weather or the Gringott’s quarterly report.  “Bit thin,” he added, an afterthought as he turned toward the club’s door.

 

Draco stood uncertain, feeling the mark Harry had left on his throat throb in time with his stuttering breath.

 

Four steps away, Harry said over his shoulder, “You coming?”

 

And without looking to see if Draco was following, Harry ordered, “Bring the collar and leash.”

 

The combination of confidence and presumption made Draco have to swallow back a whimper as he followed Harry into the club.  

 

The interior of the club lived up to its name, and Draco found it slightly claustrophobic, the petal motif enclosing them in sweeping plaster arches, the purple colors throbbing in time to the dance floor’s roving lights.  He felt like he was walking into the all-consuming maw of a monster.

 

Harry paused at the bar and said something to the bartender, who passed over to Harry two glasses and a tall bottle of some bright blue liquid, waving off the money the young man offered in return.  A wink explained the exchange to Draco’s satisfaction, and he smirked a little to realize that the great Harry Potter had probably traded blowjobs with the bartender for liquor.  

 

The smirk fell away when he considered what he’d bartered for far less.

Harry didn’t look back to see if Draco was still behind him, just threaded his way through the writhing mass of people moving sweatily on the dancefloor.

 

Amazingly, no one even tried to touch Harry, though hands were heavy on Draco’s back and buttocks as he tried to close the gap between them.

 

Finally, they arrived at a quiet space at the back of the club, a blank black wall, devoid of decoration and without any visible door.

 

Harry paused, rapped twice and then thrice and then once, harder, and a narrow door swung inward.  This time, he did look back, just to make sure Draco was with him, and then they slipped through into a gunmetal gray corridor, doors leading off on each side from behind which Draco heard the telltale sounds of assignations in progress.

 

He quirked an eyebrow, letting the leash dangle in his spread fingers, swinging the collar a little at the end, making it sway in time with his steps, which echoed sharply in the hushed hallway.  

 

Harry walked without a sound, Draco noticed, and he tried not to let it unnerve him as the former stopped at a door, indistinguishable from the others, and inserted a key, nodding over Draco’s shoulder at the large man who’d followed closely behind them once they’d breached that black wall.

 

“Thanks, Bruno,” Harry said, stepping back to let Draco slip by him, the blonde’s shoulder brushing the length of Harry’s chest as he did so.

 

The room was lit for mood, the couch functional and covered in a slip that was wash and wear.  The thunk of the glasses and bottle on the small table in front of the couch made Draco jump a little, and it was Harry’s turn to smirk.

 

“Relax, Draco,” Harry said, sitting down on the sofa and patting the space beside him.  “Have a seat.  And a drink,” he continued, reaching out to pour them both a generous glass.

 

“What is it?” Draco asked, taking time to breathe in the scent of the liquor, sharp and cold, reminding him of nothing if not the first snow of winter.

 

“Something a mutual friend makes,” was all that Harry said in response, and Draco waited until the former Seeker had taken a sip before he tried it himself.

 

He shuddered as the liquid left a trail of ice from his throat to his belly.  Then he gasped as it bloomed into fire there, hot fingers spreading further, into his loins and down his legs until he felt that his thighs might be on fire.

 

Harry gave him a knowing look and nodded.  “Good, eh?”

 

Draco could only nod in response, taking a second sip and enjoying the dueling sensations of fire and ice.

 

“What do you want?” Draco surprised himself by saying then, and Harry stopped with his drink halfway to his mouth to consider Draco over the luminous blue liquid.

 

“If I wanted to fuck your mouth, what would you say?”  He didn’t drop his gaze, didn’t blush, none of the things Draco might have expected of the old Harry Potter.

 

But then, the old Harry Potter hadn’t been a killer of children.

 

“Or rather,” Harry continued, Draco having waited too long to respond, “Should I ask how much you’d charge?”

 

Draco felt the shame burning up from his stomach—or perhaps that was the liquor making a return trip—but he tried not to let it show on his face.  He’d been a whore long enough to be used to the idea, and since it was something he’d had to do, he had long ago decided to give up on pretensions of integrity.

 

Slytherins survived by selective memory.

 

Right now, Draco was remembering Harry’s strong thighs around a broom.  He was taking apart the attractive features of the man who’d offered him money for sex so that he could forget that together they made up the boy who’d been the bane of Draco’s young life.

 

“100 for an hour; 1,000 for the night,” he said finally, willing himself to look directly into Harry’s eyes, which had narrowed during the long pause Draco had taken before answering.

 

Harry’s laugh was familiar, almost painful, and Draco had to let his eyes skitter past the man’s face to a spot on the wall behind him.

 

“Well, you still think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”   

 

Silence grew between them, filling the air with a tension Draco hadn’t felt since the battlefield.  It had that same kind of violent promise, the same terrible heaviness as of final moments being weighed against wasted lives.

 

Then Harry laughed again and the feeling was gone.  Draco took in a shuddering breath and dropped his eyes to the glass of blue liquor, which he was gripping hard enough to make white peaks of his knuckles.

 

Draco felt a gentle hand trace his right cheek and card through the hair over his ear.  He looked up to find Harry mere inches from him.

 

“I don’t want you for the night, Draco,” Harry said simply, but he meant so much more, Draco could see now.  Harry laid his lips to Draco’s forehead first, then both eyes, each cheek, and finally chastely on his liquor-cold lips.

 

Confused, Draco sat back a little, trying to put space between himself and this man who was undoing him with kindness he could not calculate.

 

“What--?” he began.

 

“I don’t want you at all that way.”  

 

Draco wasn’t sure that what was left of his pride could take being rejected by the Boy Who Lived, but he did not have time to say something cutting, for Harry continued as though reading the other man’s thoughts.

 

“You’re pretty, Draco, don’t get me wrong.  And a year ago I might have taken you home just to break you apart.  But,” and Harry shrugged in the way he had always had, a way that reminded Draco of morning light in the Great Hall, of owl-feathered air and the arrival of mail.  He closed his eyes.  This was worse than being bought and used, far worse.  From this he could not recover.

 

Draco dropped his glass on the table, stood up, stumbled toward the door, which he could not see through the film of tears he refused to let fall.

 

Harry stopped him with a firm, warm hand on his shoulder.  Draco did not turn into that inviting touch, would not remember anything more of the days when he’d been prince among his people and this other had been only an imposter.

 

“Don’t go.  Sit down with me.  Have another drink.  Snape would be upset to know it was going to waste.”

 

And at the name of his godfather, the man he’d always admired and secretly loved with the shame of a boy who’d never been loved by anyone for his own sake, Draco stilled and turned to stare at Harry Potter, who invoked the Potions Master’s name like it was common on his lips.

 

“Se—Snape.  You still see him?”  

 

“Once in awhile,” Harry said, nodding and gesturing Draco back to the sofa.  

 

“How is he?”  Draco wanted to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t manage it.  The best he could do was swallow the tears threatening to choke his throat and resume his seat.

 

“He’s well.  He makes potions for St. Mungo’s now, you know, and he has a little private practice on the side, treats victims of post-traumatic stress from the War.”

 

Draco could only nod, pick up his drink, take a sip he didn’t taste. 

 

“So…” Harry started, and Draco put the glass down with a hard clunk on the table.

 

“I’m a whore.  I fuck for money, and I stay wherever some john will let me.  Otherwise,” Draco gave a half shrug, a little rise and fall of one narrow shoulder, like it didn’t mean anything, like he wasn’t confessing the worst of his sins to the worst of his enemies.  He turned in his seat, one knee up on the serviceable sofa cover.  

 

The hand he reached toward Harry’s glasses wasn’t shaking at all, and Draco thought he should win an award for that alone.  He started to remove them, wondering idly why Harry hadn’t had his eyes spelled to good sight years ago, when Harry’s warm hand came up to halt Draco’s motion.

 

“I told you, Draco, I didn’t bring you here for that.”

 

Draco pushed himself off the couch in an angry lunge and paced the room once, twice, until Harry said, “Stop.”

 

“I don’t know what you want from me!” Draco cried, eyes narrowed and flinty in the dim blue light. 

 

“I don’t want anything from you, Draco.  Just…”  And like that, the confidence fled from the young man’s posture.  He gestured weakly with one hand, took a long pull of his drink, and slumped back against the couch cushions.  “When I saw you outside, I couldn’t believe it.  I mean, you’re…Draco bleedin’ Malfoy.  You aren’t supposed to be lounging around the Purple Lotus looking for easy dates.”

 

Draco muttered something Harry couldn’t catch.  “What’s that?”

 

“I said, ‘They aren’t all easy.’”

 

Harry looked decidedly uncomfortable.  “No, I suppose not,” he replied quietly.

 

“Look, Potter, this,” and he made an all-inclusive gesture that somehow managed to be scornful, “Is how it worked out.  To the victor go the spoils and all that rot.  Anyway, it’s my life.  I can live it the way I choose.”

 

Harry sat up, set his empty glass down hard.  “But you didn’t choose this,” he said, voice hard, but the tone wasn’t directed at Draco.  “ _They_ chose it for you.  _They_ put you out with nothing but your wits.  _They_ took your manor, your inheritance, your wand, everything.  They did it out of spite, too, never mind that in the end you proved that you weren’t capable of the kind of treachery your father had practically patented.”  He seemed to realize he was ranting, then, and let out a long breath.  More softly, he added, “You don’t deserve this, Draco.”

 

Throughout the tirade, Draco had been still as stone, standing in the place where his pacing had left him, center of the room facing Harry.  

 

There was another silence, enough that they could hear, faintly, the beat of dance music through the walls.  Draco took a step forward, two, until his shins brushed the far edge of the coffee table.  He looked down at Harry, who’d had to lean back to meet Draco’s eyes.

 

“Deserving has nothing to do with it, Potter.  It’s the hand I’ve been dealt.  I’ll play it, and I’ll thank you to keep your pity to yourself.”

 

Harry stood up, bumping the table with his legs, and put one hand out as though to shove Draco.  He thought better of it, though, and rounded the end of the table, grabbing a fistful of Draco’s shirt.  All the latter could think was that the silk was ruined, and then Harry was kissing him, roughly, no tongue, a hard pressing of teeth behind flesh against his own unwilling mouth.

 

He thought about opening his mouth, had a moment to imagine the wet slide of tongues, and then Harry was pushing him away, panting and holding a shaking hand over his mouth, like that feature would betray him again if he didn’t restrain it.

 

“Sorry,” Harry said.  “I’m…sorry.”

 

But the kiss had given back to Draco some self he’d thought he’d lost, and he laughed, a rich, sneering sound, some Slytherin, all Malfoy, and when he moved toward Harry it was with a switch of the hips that was every evil intention he’d ever had manifested in a single movement calculated to make Harry squirm.

 

He succeeded beautifully, backing the young man into the wall, pressing his length against Harry’s own obviously interested body.

 

“I’m not,” Draco breathed, just the tip of his tongue tracing the outer shell of Harry’s ear.

 

Potter gasped, hips jerking against Draco’s once, involuntary and damning.

 

“Stop,” Harry said, but he didn’t really mean it.  Draco knew what meaning it sounded like.

 

Draco feasted on Harry’s jaw line, leaving little nips, then laving his lower lip until the other opened his mouth to admit Draco’s tongue, which continued its teasing ministrations in that promising space.

 

Harry moaned into Draco’s mouth, and Draco dropped a lazy hand to Harry’s erection, stroking the other man through his leathers.  Harry shuddered under his hand and groaned again, louder in Draco’s mouth, and Draco broke the kiss to laugh.

 

“Guess you did want this, after all.”  His tone was a ghost from by-gone days, and Harry froze his thrusts and clamped his mouth closed hard enough to make his teeth click.

 

“Get off me,” he growled, shoving with suddenly strong hands against Draco’s chest.  Draco backed off with a derisive snort that spoke volumes.  

 

Neither said anything for a long time, each letting his heart come to regular rhythm again, both resisting the urge to adjust themselves in their respective—or each other’s—pants.

 

Then Draco moved toward the door.  “Tell Sev—... Tell Snape that I say, ‘Hello,’ will you?”  As though he hadn’t just had the tongue that formed the words down Harry’s throat, the hand that held the doorknob on Harry’s hard length.

 

“Dra—“ Harry tried, but the other shook his head.  

 

“Thanks for the drink, Potter.  I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

 

Harry wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise, but he knew he couldn’t let Draco leave like this, not with so much unsaid between them.

 

“Let me—“

 

“Leave it, Potter.”  And there was enough of Malfoy left in the blonde boy to make Harry stop his offer, to make him swallow the cold fear he felt at letting Draco walk away.  

 

Draco opened the door, stepped into the dark corridor beyond.

 

“Take care,” came out before Harry could stop himself.

 

The laugh that drifted back through the closing door sounded like a sob…or a promise.

 

 


End file.
